Promises and Lies
by nomzod
Summary: A darkly realistic look as Nessie's life, after tragedy strikes and she is left searching for her parents and Jacob R&R please
1. Chapter 1

Promises and Lies

Chapterete 1

My bike broke down in the middle of Arizona, interstate 17, about five miles from the state penitentiary. Not five minutes standing still and the heat hit me like a hammer. Arizona in the summertime doesn't have heat, it has pressure. Every part of your body is pressed on every side by the burning air. I would have run, damned the bike laid rail, but the consuming heat evaporated that possibility. But lying next to my beloved Ducati wasn't going to get me anywhere, so I set out on foot. I didn't maintain much hope; even before the bike broke down I'd had the road to myself for a long time.

I finally came to rest in the shadow of a sign saying: "Warning State Penitentiary. Do Not Stop For Hitchhikers," and felt despair overcome me. A vampire could have covered the distance between here and phoenix in under 2 hours, running all the way, burning heat or not. But I was not a vampire, and I was trying not to think like that anymore. 5 years living with an inferiority complex had been enough, and I was trying to climb out of my self esteem hole. I resigned myself to walking after a tiny rest, and took a sip from my bottle. The…liquid was soothing on my throat, but I knew it couldn't last. You can't carry milk for long in the Arizona heat, nor blood, and what I was drinking was a mixture of both.

I'd gotten the idea from a special on Massai tribes in Africa. Some found it disgusting. I think water's disgusting.

The Milk helped me focus, and with my thirst abated I began to take stock. Clearly conservation had to be the new game, my best planed would be to go to ground. To find some shade, and wait for nightfall when I might be able to run. Of course, the desert isn't about heat, it's about moisture, and I knew that the night would probably be very cold. But cold didn't bother me.

I resolved to follow the highway into the hills, and bury myself in a patch of shade until night.

As I walked into the hills I began to make out a strange sight, hidden before by the highway's mirage. Sitting under a beach umbrella, in a camp chair, looking for all the world like he was having a pleasant little outing was a well muscled man. As I approached I watched him sip a beer, as if he were basking on the seashore, instead of a trash littered highway in 126 degree heat. I couldn't then, and haven't since been able to place his age at anything other than "older".

He skin was tan and weather beaten, his arms and legs looked like wooden cords, thick and strong in a way you can't get just from working out. He had a body that said hard labor, and when he smiled at my approach his smile said "dental work". His eyes crinkled as he looked up and me and he quickly turned and found a camp stool.

I sat.

He reached into a cooler and handed me a beer, I took it and drank.

The alcohol doesn't provide any nourishment to my system, but it does everything else it's supposed to. Besides I learned to drink on the Quileute res, after that there's nothing my system can't handle.

He didn't say a word, and I was grateful for that much. My mother and father never needed me to talk, and after that I never could figure out how to talk to normal people. Instead we sat in silence, watching the road, and the country around us. Most people think of the Southwest as a barren wasteland. I did myself before I had seen it. The air is clear there, clearer than you can believe. When you look out at the scrub and the sandstone you can see for miles and miles and miles through the blue air. The desert teams with life as well, and even though we weren't in real saguaro country a couple of cacti stuck out of a carpet of sage and scrub. A lone hawk circled. My eyes, stronger than a normal human's, could pick out signs of mice and insects whispering under the shade. A coyote tiptoed through the scrub, a half mile off, looking for anything dead.

After nearly an hour of sitting in silence my companion decided to break the ice,

"Phoenix" It was a statement, not a question.

I nodded, being careful to keep my thoughts neutral. My mind is an open book to anyone around me. I have the ability to broadcast my thoughts and feelings to those in range. Regular humans aren't very sensitive to it, so it's easier around them. Extra normal creatures aren't. As superpowers go it's more of a super liability, something an author might dream up to solve a storytelling problem. If you think it sounds nice, imagine letting an entire household in on your wet-dream, or telling your extended family about your split-second fantasy about your cousin. I try and keep my thoughts under heavy control and it's easier when I don't have to talk.

"We can give you a ride I think." He paused, and then said, "yeah, _we_"

I must have been broadcasting my confusion. Dammit.

We sat in silence for awhile longer before my strange companion started putting away the parasol, throwing our empty bottles in a trash bag, and generally striking camp. It was only as I looked around in confusion that I realized I had been hearing the sound of a truck for the last several minutes.

I looked back at the old man, and then quickly away again, trying to hide the blush that was quickly spreading across my face. He had stripped down to his shorts and was quickly bundling his clothes and packing them away. I hadn't noticed until now, because he was wearing a white shirt, but his pants were a bright orange. He was a convict, for chrissakes. An escaped convict, just sitting next to the road.

Authors Notes

_Comments appreciated. Should you wish to take issue with character persona's and actions I would welcome input, input that does not fit the format (------would never do that.) If you can back up your claim, please write, if not you will be ignored._

_As this is a work in progress I would like comments on form, personal identification, and style. I have attempted to replicate Mrs Meyers rambling and incoherent style. Her inability to choose a tense, her rambling chain of events, and most of all her strange disdain for actual dialog. While I am having fun replicating said style I would be willing to abandon it should the story become popular enough that people actually want a coherent story._

_As well, should your questions address the concept of "true love" (yes I have put it in quotes) please refrain. The summary says "Realistic." If people could fall in true love and never have relationship problems again, our divorce rate wouldn't be so high, and our homicide rate would be cut in half._

_Any comments directly related to these notes, and the opinions contained within will be ignored for the pointless drivel they surely are.  
_


	2. Chapter 2

Promises and Lies

Chapterete 2

The rumbling approached at speed, and nearly as fast, the old man and I had jumped in the bed. A pair of jeans had been thrown out the window and the man had donned them while I loaded his effects. A Hispanic man and a Caucasian woman, hair shock white with age rode in the cab. All the while there was no talk between any of them. They went about with their business like old friends, no different than picking someone up from their house. Then the road began to sweep by, cool and refreshing, almost as fast as…I wouldn't start thinking like that.

I talked with my strange partner over the roar of the wind, and we made a quick turn-around trip for my bike. If anyone was surprised that I could pick it up and stow it, one handed, they didn't show it. Rust and the wet weather of Washington had destroyed the brakes, not that I used them much anyway. One of the pads had popped and started to grind against the rim, I knew better than to drive it like that, Jacob, the bastard, would be proud.

Despite all my hopes for speed we made Phoenix after nightfall. Still on the outskirts we pulled into a truck stop, seedy bar, gas station and motel. That suited me fine; I needed some time to muster the city itself. Still silent the group parked and made their way into the restaurant. I hesitated, wondering whether to follow them, or unpack the Ducati and get a room at the motel. The old man turned to me and gestured to follow them; and, feeling alone and self-conscious, I complied.

In the darkness of the bar the Three ordered a pitcher of Coors. I tried to get a Dolce de Leche, and upon meeting a blank stare from the waitress, just asked for a milk and a shot of rum.

"Ye ain't human." Loud enough to make me start, the Old man said.

"Um…no."

"Butcha ain't a vampire." The others looked on, content to let the convict interrogate me.

I was shocked and startled, even my grandfather had never come out and said that word. I had never heard a human say it before, other than in movies and TV shows. It took me a bit to answer. To my embarrassment, I saw my shock and dismay written large across the faces of those across from me. When my humiliation hit them the all turned their heads. I couldn't thank them enough for that. That simple kindness made talking easier, and I did my best to tell my story.

I hate telling stories. My superpower allows the listener to pick up on subtleties and nuances that simple words couldn't convey. This meant a story from me was like a radio show combined with a psychic movie. When I was younger my family would all gather around to hear about my day, and for awhile I enjoyed that. Then I got older, and my thoughts and feelings began to get more confusing, and more private. Still my family insisted on hearing about my day, and as my deepest secrets and darkest fears were poured out to them, I began to dread even a simple conversation with them.

They thought it was cute.

I began to realize that what was a terrible ordeal was a joke to them, a way to giggle and smirk about my life.

So I don't talk much anymore.

Now in the darkness of the bar, closeted and confused I began to talk about my life.

I was born into turmoil. Even my birth was an event witch threatened the safety of my family and friends. I was a mistake pure and simple, but this was never something that my family worried about, they saw it as a testiment of their love, both of each other and of me. I believed them then, and still do to a certain extent.

I had a vampire family which loved me, and were-wolf friends who would die for me. The perfect family if it was held together by more than promises and lies. My mother believed in true love, and I grew up with lessons that led back to love at every juncture.

I finished my drink, and sat for a second thinking. At this point the only way out of the story was through, so I pressed on.

"How old do you think I am?" I asked

The question was greeted with a sucking silence. Apparently age was off limits here

"I'm 13," I answered myself.

My mother was human when I was conceived, I don't know much about my birth, only that she was a vampire shortly after I was born. I don't really know what I am, but I age differently than humans. I'm not as strong, not as fast, my senses aren't as good and one day I will die. I've spent my life around a family that was simply better than I could ever be.

I don't know how old I look, I've been told anywhere from 18 to 26, but I only have thirteen years of thoughts and experiences.

I gave a hollow laugh then and added, "Puberty was a hell. My aging slowed around physical age eight, but I still went faster then normal. I went through all the changes in three years."

My vampire family was adventurous in the country; I spent most of my time outdoors, learning to hunt. My constant companion from the day of my birth was Jacob, the bastard. He was my baby-sitter, my teacher and my friend. Jacob, the bastard, was a were-wolf, strongly tied to his pack, so I grew up in a close family environment.

I stopped talking to order another drink. If I explained more I'd have to get more personal. I wanted to talk, it felt good, explaining was helping me to take stock of my life. But I was putting things into perspective, and the picture hurt. I couldn't continue. The mood at the table was subdued; I could see these people understood more than I wanted to and it made me angry.

"I don't even know your names" I muttered. I never was good at aggression. My family and friends were nearly invincible, and had no problem with violence. On top of that my father and Jacob had started their relationships at each others throats, and as time went on it got worse. My mother played mediator on a daily basis, and I picked up the behavior at an early age. Angry people frighten me, and my own anger is terrifying. How can I be safe from the feelings I fear when they come from inside of me.

"Peter, Peter Carpenter." This from the old man.

"Jesua." He pronounced it Heshua, and I almost giggled. I was near hysteria, and the table was beginning to feel it. I only made me more ashamed.

"Maude." Said Maude, and that was it for introductions.

The table fell silent then, and I began to regain some control.

Somehow we made it through the next two hours without any meaningful discussion. I can only remember that nothing important or revealing was ever said, but that conversation was both pleasant and colloquial. But as the night went on, and I continued to imbibe, I began to feel less and less comfortable with my unfinished story.

Alcohol tends to have a debilitating effect on the super-sense. It has a debilitating effect on any sense really, but the psychic results are more unpredictable and unstable. Fortunately for me this usually manifests as decreased impact of my broadcasts. I have less control over them, but as long as I'm telling the room about pink elephants, and not my period cramps I'm happy.

At one point a hush fell on the table, and as the three turned to me I picked up my story without faltering.

Jacob adored me, he believed in destiny and romance as well and I started to apply all my mothers' lessons of love to him.

He was my first, and I did it because I thought I loved him, I thought he loved me, and I thought it was the right thing to do. On top of that, I was 13 (developmentally) and puberty had hit me like a brick wall. I spent my time avoiding my parents, which meant that I was outside a lot. Vampire hearing is excellent, my father is much more psychic than is good for the people around him, and my broadcasts all made for a tense home situation. My confusion, anger, self esteem worries, and secret teen-aged shames couldn't be kept private when under the same roof. I spent my time out of doors, and away from my family. Jacob, the bastard, was always there for me, his own history with my parents, encouraged my own feelings of isolation, and I began to worry that my life with them was unsustainable.

I fed these feelings in the way most teenagers do, excess. My sexual relationship with Jacob, the bastard, became torrid and frantic. I drank to excess, which is practically a sport in La Push, and I experimented with self-mutilation.

By this time we had moved outside. I stopped the story as we ordered rooms, Peter, Jesua, and Maude in one room, me in another. Drunk as I was I couldn't help wondering if they all slept together. My god damned super-liability kicked in, and I turned around quickly, my face flaming hot, praying not to see their expressions.

When I turned back I saw no sign that any of them had heard me, and we made our way to our rooms in blessed silence.

The reaction or lack of reaction to my broadcast was one of the kindest things that any normal human had ever done for me. The neutrality was so breathtakingly unexpected that I nearly broke down, when I was alone. After I arranged what little I had with me, I opened the door between the rooms (theirs was already open, waiting for me) and continued.


End file.
